Kitabı oku: «Old Court Life in France, Volume II (of 2)», sayfa 10

CHAPTER XVII.
THE CONVENT OF CHAILLOT

MADEMOISELLE DE LA VALLIÈRE is summoned to the presence of the Queen-mother. She is sitting in the Grey Chamber, next to her oratory. Louise is aware that Anne of Austria never gives audiences in the Grey Chamber except on the most serious occasions. The Queen-mother wears a dark dress, in cut and shape like the robe of a nun; her grey hair is gathered into a head-dress of white lace, and she carries a rosary at her side. She looks old and sad; her stately form is bent, her face is thin, her features are drawn, and wrinkles obscure her once brilliant eyes.

The Duchesse d'Orléans is seated by her side. Louise enters. She dares not advance beyond the door. Standing there she makes deep obeisances to the Queen-mother and to Madame Henriette. She blushes scarlet, then turns pale. Her head drops on her bosom; as she stands before them she feels more dead than alive.

"I see you are there, Mademoiselle de la Vallière," says the Queen, frowning. "I wish to speak to you in the presence of your late mistress, Madame Henriette de France, my daughter-in-law. You are aware why we have sent for you?"

"No, Madame," answers the maid of honour, faintly, "but I humbly await your orders."

"What affected humility!" exclaims Madame Henriette with a sneer. "You act uncommonly well, petite."

"All the better if she be humble, my daughter," rejoins the Queen-mother, speaking of La Vallière as if she were not present – "all the better. It is some step towards repentance that she is conscious of her crime. It will save us the trouble of insisting on it. Pray to God, mademoiselle, to pardon you; you have no hope but in heaven." And she casts a stern glance at her.

The tears gather in La Vallière's soft blue eyes. They course each other down her pallid cheeks, and fall, spotting her pale blue dress. Her head, covered with a profusion of short fair curls, is still bent down. She looks like a delicate flower bowed before a cruel tempest.

"What are you going to do with those fine diamond bracelets the King presented to you the other day out of the Queen's lottery?" asks Madame Henriette tauntingly, interrupting the Queen.

Anne of Austria makes a sign to her to be silent. Poor Louise for an instant turns her eyes imploringly upon her. Madame grows pale with spite as she remembers those superb diamond bracelets that the King drew as a prize from the lottery, – which she had fully expected he would present to herself, – were given by him to La Vallière. She is so wroth she cannot leave Louise alone; again she attacks her. "Your vanity is insufferable, mademoiselle. Do you imagine, petite sotte, that any one cares for you? Mademoiselle de Pons is the belle of the Court. His Majesty says so."

At this malicious stab Louise shudders.

"My daughter," interposes the Queen-mother, "do not agitate yourself. I understand your annoyance at having introduced such a person as Mademoiselle de la Vallière at Court. Let me address her. She is unworthy of your notice. You understand, of course, mademoiselle, that you are dismissed," she says, turning towards her and speaking imperiously.

"But, your Majesty – " and La Vallière's streaming eyes are again lifted upwards for an instant – "what, oh, what have I done?"

"Ask yourself, mademoiselle. Unless there are to be two queens of France, you must go. You cannot wish me, the mother of his Majesty, to enter into details on a subject so painful to my feelings."

"No, I should think not," breaks in Madame Henriette, "unless you have no sense of decency. A little unworthy chit like you to dare to trouble royal princesses; you are as impertinent as you are disreputable."

At these cruel words La Vallière staggers backwards, and almost falls. Then she again turns her swollen eyes towards the royal ladies with absolute terror.

Ah, heaven! she thinks, if the King did but know her agony, her sufferings! Ah, if he were but here to speak for her! But not a word passes her lips.

Madame Henriette's eyes fix themselves on her with a look of triumph. She becomes absolutely radiant at the sight of the humiliation of her whom she calls "her rival."

"You know our pleasure, mademoiselle," says Anne of Austria, rising from her arm-chair." You will return from whence you came – Touraine, I believe. You will be conducted by Madame de Choisy; but, indeed, you need no escort; you have nothing to fear now," and the Queen-mother casts a look of withering contempt on the wretched girl, more offensive even than her bitter words.

Louise shrinks backwards. She would fain escape.

"Do not forget, mademoiselle, before you go, to thank Madame Henriette de France for all her goodness to you," says the Queen, arresting her with a motion – "goodness, indeed, you have so ill requited."

"No, no!" cries Madame; "I want no thanks. I only want to be rid of her. Let her go, my mother; I ask no more."

The two Princesses rise together. They both deliberately turn their backs upon La Vallière, and leave the room. For some moments she stands as if turned into stone. Then she gives a wild scream, raises her small hands, clutches the delicate curls that hang about her face, and rushes from "the Grey Chamber."

"Dishonoured – banished! Ah, God! what will become of me?" she cries distractedly when she has locked herself in her own room. "Ah! what will my mother say when she knows all? Holy Virgin, I am lost!"

She paces up and down the floor – she sobs, she moans. Everything about her reminds her of the King. She handles the presents he has given her; she takes out his letters; she kisses them; she presses them to her bosom. She tries to collect her thoughts, but the murmur of the night wind, sweeping over the trees in the adjacent forest and whistling round the angles of the palace, catches her ear. To her excited imagination it wails lamentations over her. As she listens she seems to hear her mother's voice reproaching her. Now as the blast rises higher and higher it is her father, who curses her in the tempest that sweeps by. Trembling in every limb she rises and dashes the glittering baubles she still holds in her hands to the ground. Her head reels, her reason totters. Fresh sobs and fresh torrents of tears come to her relief. Suddenly the same idea, in the same place, rushes into her mind as had struck Louise de Lafayette, yet under widely different circumstances. Louise de Lafayette, a creature so pure, so angelic as to start back dismayed from the faintest whisper of a too ardent love – she, Louise de la Vallière, held up to public contumely, dismissed the Court! She must fly; she must never be heard of more. She can never return home. A convent must hide her. "God alone and the blessed saints are left to me!" she cries; "wretch that I am, let me seek them where they may be found."

As soon as the grey morning comes creeping into her room, lighting up her white face and crushed figure, as she leans back in the chair where she has sat immovable all the live-long night, she rises, and puts together a little bundle of necessaries. She covers herself with a cloak, and softly opening the door, makes her way down the nearest flight of stairs. No one sees her, for the day is only dawning. She glides swiftly out of the palace, passes the gate, where the sentinel is sleeping at his post, and finds herself in the street of the little town of Saint-Germain. Her heart beats so quickly, and her steps are so rapid, that she is soon obliged to stop for want of breath. Not knowing where to go, she leans against the corner of a house. She strains her eyes up and down the street in every direction, but sees no one of whom she can ask her way. At last, at the bottom of the grande rue, a country woman appears, carrying a basket on her arm. She is on her way to market. Louise flies towards her. The woman stares at her. La Vallière's lips move, but she has no breath to speak.

"God speed you, pretty lady. Where are you going so early?" asks the peasant.

"Ma bonne," at last answers La Vallière, when she has recovered her breath, "can you tell me the way to Chaillot? I want to go to the convent."

Now, Chaillot was a convent founded by Henrietta Maria, Queen of England, situated between Saint-Germain and Paris, no vestige of which now remains.

"Surely, belle dame, I can tell you. Come with me, I am going that way," and the woman stares at her again. "Why are you out so early? Are you from the palace?"

"No, no!" gasps La Vallière, terrified to death lest the woman's suspicions should be aroused, and that she would refuse to let her follow her. "I am not from the palace. Ask me nothing. I can only tell you that a great misfortune has happened to me, and that I am going to consult the Superior of Sainte-Marie, at Chaillot, who is my friend."

The peasant asks no more questions, and La Vallière, who clings to her side, arrives in due time under the walls of Chaillot.

"There, mademoiselle, is the Church of the Sisters of Sainte-Marie. God speed you."

Louise rings the bell, and asks the portress to be permitted to speak with the Superior.

"She is in retreat, madame, and cannot be disturbed," the portress replies.

"In the name of God, my sister, tell her that a person in great affliction craves her help."

The portress does not immediately answer, but leads her into a hall within, at one end of which is the latticed grille which divides the professed nuns from the lay sisters.

An hour passes, and no one appears. La Vallière, fatigued by the unaccustomed exercise, almost distracted, gazes wistfully at the bare walls that surround her. This then is to be the living tomb of her youth, her love. This grim refuge or the grave. She turns to the strong door, bound with iron bars, by which she entered, and shudders. She watches the handle; no one comes, not a sound breaks the silence. It seems to her that God and man have alike forsaken her – a creature so vile, so unworthy. Her repentance has come too late. Heaven's mercy-gates are closed! A wild, unreasoning terror seizes her – her brain beats as with iron hammers – she grows cold and faint – a mist gathers before her eyes – a deadly sickness creeps over her – she falls senseless on the stone floor.

When she opens her eyes, she is lying upon a clean bed, shaded by snowy curtains, in a little white-washed cell; two dark-robed Carmelite sisters are bending over her.

It was not long before the King heard that La Vallière had fled. Not daring to make too public inquiries, he sent for the superintendent of police, La Regnie.

"Find Mademoiselle de la Vallière," he says, "dead or alive; find her instantly – instantly, I say, or I dismiss you from my service."

This was not difficult; the trembling steps of the fugitive were soon traced. La Regnie returns, and informs his royal master that La Vallière is within the Convent of Chaillot. Louis does not lose a moment in following her. He appears at the convent gate, accompanied by his confidant, Lauzun. He demands admittance. Some of the older nuns, scandalised at the idea of a man entering the cloister, refuse to unlock the gate; but the Mother-Superior, wiser in her generation, herself descends, and key in hand undoes the fastenings, and welcomes his Majesty with the utmost deference.

Meanwhile, La Vallière, somewhat recovered from her swoon, sits alone beside a narrow window which overlooks the convent garden. She feels dull and oppressed; her eyes are dazed; her head is heavy.

The perfect silence around her, the homely little cell looking into a peaceful garden, full of herbs and vegetables for the service of the convent, in one corner a grove of cypress-trees, which overtops the high walls that encircle it, is all new and strange to her. She seems to have passed into another world. She remembers but indistinctly all that has happened; she has almost forgotten how she came there. A pensive melancholy paralyses her senses. She is very weak and helpless; her brain is still confused. It is all very strange. She cannot collect her thoughts, but over all the mists of memory, plain and distinct, rise a face and form dear to her beyond life.

Suddenly a sound of approaching footsteps awakens the echoes of the long corridor leading to the cell. As well as steps there is a confused hum of many persons talking. At first she listens vaguely; then, as the sounds grow nearer, she springs to her feet. A sound has struck upon her ear – a sound sweeter than music. It is the King's voice! The door is flung open, and Louis – his handsome face flushed with excitement, his eyes beaming with tenderness – stands before her.

"Come," he says softly, whispering into her ear, and pressing her cold hand within both his own, "come, my beloved, you have nothing in common with this dreary place. I am here to carry you away. Fear no one; I will protect you – I will glory in protecting you. Rise, my Louise, and follow me."

The Carmelite sisters stand peeping in at the door. The Superior alone has followed his Majesty into the cell. Some moments pass before Louise commands her voice to speak; at last, in a scarcely audible whisper, and trembling all over, she says —

"Sire, – " then, not daring to meet the King's impassioned glance, she pauses; "Sire," she repeats, "I did not come here of my own accord. I was obliged to leave. My remaining at Saint-Germain offended her Majesty and other great personages – " she stops again, overcome by the recollection of the scene with the Queen and the Duchesse d'Orléans – "personages, Sire, whom I dare not – I could not offend." Her soft face is suffused with a blush of anguish; she hangs down her head. "I was sent away, Sire; it was not my wish to go – indeed it was not my wish!" she adds, in a voice so low and tremulous that Louis could not have heard what she said had he not bent down his ear close to her white lips.

"Then you shall return, dearest, for mine. I am master, and my wish is law. I care nothing for 'august personages'; they shall learn to obey me – the sooner the better."

"But, Sire, I cannot be the cause of strife. The Queen-mother and Madame have dismissed me; and they were right," she added in a very faint voice. "I dare not offend them by my presence, after – " She stops, and can say no more.

"Think of the future, Louise, not of the past; it is gone," and Louis takes her trembling hands in his. "A future lies before you full of joy. Leave the Queen-mother to me, Louise. Come – come with me," and with gentle violence he tries to raise her from her chair. "Follow me, and fear nothing."

"Oh, Sire," whispers Louise, the colour again leaving her cheeks, "do not tempt me from my vocation."

"Do not talk to me of your vocation," returns Louis roughly; "what is your vocation to me? Can you part from me so lightly?" he adds, more gently.

"Alas, Sire, I dare not return to Court; every look would condemn me!"

"Condemn you! Believe me, I will place you so high that no one shall dare to condemn you. Am I not the master?"

"Oh, suffer me to lay my sins upon the altar! Do not seek to prevent it," sighs La Vallière, clasping her hands. "But remember, Sire, oh, remember, that in my heart you can have no rival but heaven." She speaks with passion, but she dares not look up at him; had she done so, she would have quailed before the expression of his eyes; – they devour her.

All this is said very low, in order not to be overheard by the Superior, who, although she has retired as far as the doorway, is still present.

"Louise, you do not love me. You have never loved me," whispers Louis, and he turns away. He is deeply offended; her resistance to his commands enrages him.

"Ah, heaven!" La Vallière sighs, and turns her blue eyes, swimming with tears, towards him, "would to God it were so!" She speaks in so subdued a tone – she is so crushed, so fragile – that the King's compassion is suddenly excited; he looks steadfastly into her face; he trembles lest she may die under this trial. Again he takes her hand, raises her from her chair, and draws her towards the door.

"If you love me, Louise, follow me. I cannot live without you!" he adds almost fiercely. "Fear nothing. Her Majesty shall receive you. The Queen-mother and Madame" – at their names La Vallière quivers all over – "shall offend you no more. Leave this horrible cell, my Louise. Come, and let me enshrine you in a temple worthy of your beauty, your goodness, and of my love," he adds, in a fervid whisper, which makes her heart throb with rapture. "Come!"

Louise returns to Saint-Germain. She is created Duchesse de la Vallière, and is appointed Lady of the Bedchamber to Queen Maria Theresa.

CHAPTER XVIII.
FOUQUET, SUPERINTENDENT OF FINANCE

NICHOLAS FOUQUET, Marquis de Belle-Isle and Vicomte de Mélun et Vaux,³ held the post of Superintendent of Finance under the Regency of Anne of Austria. He was continued in this important office after the accession of Louis XIV. Fouquet was insinuating, specious, hypocritical, and sensual; a munificent patron to those about him, and an adorer of the beautiful in art and nature. He was, moreover, one of those courtly financiers so constantly met with before the Revolution, who, however the country starved, always found funds "for the service of his Majesty."

In course of time, Louis grew alarmed at Fouquet's reckless expenditure; his personal magnificence was boundless, but there was not a sous of state money in reserve. Colbert was consulted by the King. Colbert was jealous of Fouquet's position; he examined his accounts, and found them incorrect. The King courteously pointed out the errors to Fouquet, who persisted in the perfect accuracy of his figures. Louis, convinced of the Superintendent's dishonesty, resolved to dismiss him on the first opportunity.

But this falsification of accounts was his least cause of offence to his Sovereign. Fouquet had presumed to imitate the Olympian tastes of the Grand Monarque. If Louis was a god, his Superintendent was at least a demi-god, and claimed a demi-god's privilege of "loving the daughters of men." Unfortunately, too, he dared to raise his eyes to those particular idols worshipped by the King. His disgrace was therefore certain. Some indistinct rumours of the danger that threatened him reached his ears. He was moved, but not alarmed. He racked his fertile brain how best to recover favour, and he determined to give so magnificent a fête in honour of the King at his country-seat, Vaux, near Mélun, as should remove all suspicion of his loyalty. Such were the customs of the age. Having for years systematically robbed the State, Fouquet was to reinstate himself in favour by a still more public theft!

Before Versailles arose on the sand-hills lying between Saint-Cyr and the wooded uplands of Saint-Cloud, Vaux was the most splendid palace in France. The architect was Le Vau, celebrated by Boileau. The corps de logis was surmounted by a dome supported by sixteen marble arches, resting on pillars; two immense pavilions formed the wings. The gardens, designed by Le Nôtre, were decorated with statues, and ballustraded terraces bordering canals, and water-works, in the Italian fashion – "surprises," as they were called. All was formal and symmetrical; the very plants and shrubs were only permitted to grow to order. Nature was banished to the distant woods, which spread in verdant folds about the rising ground behind the château, and decked the greensward of the park, ere it reached the waters of the Seine flowing below.

The fête was fixed for the 17th of August. It was a splendid day; the sky was unclouded, and the golden sunshine lighted up the deepest recesses of the forest, when Louis started in the morning from Fontainebleau, where the Court was then staying. He was escorted by D'Artagnan and a regiment of musketeers.

There was a goodly company; the King drove La Vallière and the Comtesse de Guiche in his calèche; the Queen-mother came in her coach; other ladies were in litters. The Queen, who was in an interesting state of health, stayed at home. Fouquet stood ready, at the grand entrance of his palace. He received the King kneeling, and presented to him the golden keys of Vaux. Louis touched them with his fingers, raised Fouquet from the ground, and in a few gracious words assured him of his favour and protection; with what truth we shall see. The same ceremony was repeated by Madame Fouquet to the Queen mother, with a like result.

On entering the vestibule, even the Gallic Jupiter was amazed at the magnificence of all he saw. The suite of rooms were arranged in allegorical order, each named after a god or goddess; the ceilings and walls painted to represent their attributes and the events of their lives. The sun and moon, the planets and fixed stars, also formed an important feature in the decorations. The seasons added their attributes, and together with the winds lent themselves gracefully to the necessities of the general arrangements. His Majesty was invited to repose in the billiard-room, dedicated to Hercules, who by a happy invention prefigured himself. From the billiard-room he entered the grand saloon, where the sun, in gorgeous colours of saffron, crimson, and scarlet, covered the entire ceiling. Louis smiled a smile of gratification; the sun was his acknowledged emblem. Was it possible, he thought, that Fouquet might be forgiven? The Superintendent advanced. He bowed to the ground, and asked leave to explain the legend.

"The sun – the centre of the universe, the creator of light, heat, and life – is your Majesty. Deprived of your gracious presence, we sink into darkness and death. That star beside the sun is myself, Sire, receiving light from your Majesty's benignant rays."

Louis frowned, and bit his lip. It seemed to him that the star was dangerously near the sun; it displeased him. He changed his mind, and now decided that that too assertative star must be extinguished.

From the saloon, Louis passed into a retiring-room, dedicated to the Muses and the Virtues, all with open mouths, grouped round a figure of Fidelity, whose praises they sang.

"Who is represented by fidelity?" asked Louis, turning to the Duc de Saint-Aignan, in attendance on him.

"I have just been told that Fidelity represents Fouquet himself, your Majesty."

"What on earth can Fidelity have to do with a Superintendent of Finance?" muttered Louis, shrugging his shoulders. "And that female figure conducting Fidelity – who is that?"

"Prudence, I am told," replied Saint-Aignan. "Prudence; and the one on the other side is Reason."

"Prudence, Reason, and Fidelity guiding Fouquet. Ma foi, it is not bad," and an ironical smile passed over the monarch's face. "But we have not done with the paintings yet. Who are the others?"

"That figure, Sire, in a golden-coloured robe, is Clio, I am told, the Muse of History. With one hand she assists Fidelity into heaven, with the other she records the annals of his life."

"The annals of his life," muttered the King (for Fouquet stood near at hand, to be summoned by his Sovereign when wanted). "It will be well for him if history does not record his signal disgrace. He may prove another Phaeton, this M. Fouquet, and fall from the stars into eternal darkness. Jupiter still grasps his thunders. Let us leave this room – it stifles me," said Louis aloud. "What is the meaning of the device of the serpents I see everywhere?" again inquired Louis of the Duke.

"The serpents represent Colbert, the rival of Fouquet, Sire. Fidelity, Reason, and Discretion crush these serpents as you see."

"Really, these allegories are charming, M. Fouquet," said Louis, with a covert sneer, turning towards his host, and speaking in a loud voice, "but allegories are not always truthful." Fouquet bowed to the ground, and turned very pale.

After having examined the interior of the château, and partaken of a sumptuous refection, the King was invited to pass into the garden to see the illuminations.

There the whole horizon was aglow. On three broad terraces, of the purest white marble, which extended along the entire façade of the building, rows of golden candelabra bore myriads of wax lights. Rows of gigantic orange-trees, in full blossom, shone with orbs of variegated light, that glittered on the dark surface of the polished leaves. Below, in a vast square, fashioned into a sunken parterre of flowers, arranged in various patterns, cunningly concealed lamps of every hue were hidden among the leaves, their innumerable flamelets forming a carpet of living fire. Jets of flame leaped from tree to tree. Beyond the parterre, the broad canal banks blazed and palpitated with fiery heat. The waters, of a ruddy hue, now reflecting the gorgeous scene, now riven into jets d'eau and fountains which blaze upwards for an instant, throwing up clouds of rockets that sport like comets among the stars, to fall back in cascades of golden sparks. Beyond, in the woods, each noble forest-tree, in minutest detail of every branch and twig, stood out in relief against what appeared a vault of fire. Long vistas led far away among stalwart oaks and feathery limes, growing out of a sea of flames. All around there was nothing but fire – dazzling, overwhelming fire. Now it turned to green, then by some magic touch it changed to blue, then flashed into crimson; while feux de joie and cannon roared from concealed batteries, and shook the very air. Behind, the architectural lines of the château were marked by clusters of golden lamps. Every room shone brighter than at noon, and the central dome, with its graceful colonnade, blazed like a volcano. On the terrace, in front of the château, military bands clashed with joyous symphonies. When these ceased, soft music sounded from out the fiery woods, from violins and flutes, swelling in the cadences of some tender melody. The crowd below, changing with the metamorphose of the lights, formed a fitting fore-ground to this burning perspective. It was a scene of artificial life after Lancret, backed by a conflagration. Brocaded trains swept along the fine gravel of the walks. Wreaths of diamonds sparkled on voluminous wigs, which fell in heavy curls over neck and shoulders. Long white feathers, and finest Brussels lace, fringed and decked turned-up hats of velvet. Glittering officers were side by side with comely pages, brighter than butterflies. Gold embroideries shone on delicately coloured velvets, satins, and watered-silks; priceless jewels glittered on knee and shoe, on neck and arm, on waist and drapery; torsades on hats, and sword-hilts flashed and multiplied the fiery marvels of the night. Even le Grand Monarque, as he paused upon the terrace to observe the scene, deigned to express his admiration and surprise. But his praise was scant, his words cold, he spoke morosely, and his brows were knit.

The more he investigated the magnificence of Vaux, the more he believed the accusations of Colbert. Fouquet heard the praise; he did not observe the frown. He was radiant. Louis looked round, anxious to escape from the glare and the crowd. He longed to retire into some shady grove with La Vallière. She was very beautiful that evening. Louis reproached himself for ever having caused her pain. She wore a dress of white stuff, worked with golden leaves; a blue ribbon, tied in a knot in front, encircled her small waist. Her light hair, untouched by powder, and sown with flowers and pearls, fell over her shoulders; two enormous emeralds hung in her ears. Her arms were uncovered, but to conceal their thinness, she wore above the elbow a broad circlet of gold set with opals. Her gloves were of fine Brussels lace, showing the rosy skin beneath. Her graceful yet dignified manners, her tender blue eyes, breathing nothing but love and gentleness, her look of patient goodness, were never more charming than when seen among the painted and powdered belles of that intriguing Court. It was impossible for Louis to have a word with her in private. Every feminine eye was bent upon him. All the ladies – young, old, fair and dark – pressed round him as he moved among the alleys and terraces of the illuminated garden. He was the rose that attracted alike the butterflies and the grubs – the sunshine and the shadow. Like royalty of all ages, Louis soon grew weary of this espionage, and called for the Duc de Saint-Aignan. He was nowhere to be found. At last, after having walked up and down the three terraces, admired the great cascade and the grotto, afterwards to be repeated at Saint-Cloud, he sought out the Queen-mother. She was seated on the terrace, surveying the illumination at a distance. Louis leaned over the marble balustrade near her.

"This is magnificent, my mother," said he; "so magnificent that I believe every word Colbert has told me. Colbert showed me peculations on paper; I see them here with my own eyes. Think of the millions he must have spent! Look at my palace of Saint-Germain – dilapidated, dismal; Fontainebleau still unfinished. It is shameful! Fouquet is a mushroom, who has nourished himself out of my revenues. I can crush him – I will crush him – destroy him!" and the King stamped his foot savagely on a pavement of coloured marbles.

"My son, do not speak so loudly," replied the Queen.

At this moment Saint-Aignan appeared ascending the steps from below.

"Where have you been, Duke?" asked Louis sharply.

"A thousand pardons, your Majesty. They searched for me in the wrong place. You will not, however, have reason to regret my absence," and he gave the King a look full of meaning, and signed to him to move farther off from all possibility of listeners. "Sire," continued he, "I have made a discovery."

"A discovery! Where? What have you found?" and Louis drew closer to him.

"Sire, I fear you have a rival," and Saint-Aignan glanced significantly at the Duchesse de la Vallière, who sat on a settee behind, not far from the Queen-mother.

"A rival! Ridiculous! You have been asleep and dreaming, Duke."

"No, Sire; on the faith of a peer of France, no. Your Majesty has a rival, I repeat."

"What do I care for rivals! I have her heart," and Louis glanced tenderly at La Vallière.